After the Rain

barracks in Beirut. That he had been diverted from the front lines for this lonely work in America.

Rashid politely wondered if years spent living in the suburbs quietly smuggling drugs to finance Hamas and Hezbollah might have eroded his commitment to killing Americans.

“Try me,” the Mole said.

Some testing back and forth ensued. It was established that the Mole had been trained in the bombmaker’s art and that the contraband being negotiated was explosives. Not long after that, and after he’d made reference to jihad three times, Rashid confided that, yes, he was associated with Al Qaeda. But he was no zealot, he insisted. And being a practical man, he was willing to contract out work; especially in the current security environment.

Which was fine, because while the Mole and his cousin paid lip service to the Cause, basically their background was rooted in the criminal underbelly of the movement in the Bekaa Valley. They preferred their politics heavily flavored with money.

Then they returned to North Dakota to case the specific smuggling route for Rashid’s Semtex. That’s when they were found out by the strange American. The easy solution would have been to kill him on the spot. Instead they let him talk. In the man’s desperate babble the Mole discerned the essence of a plan that could dwarf the 9/11 attack.

The American understood he was in dangerous company. Instead of being intimidated, this fact encouraged him to talk freely, ultimately revealing his secret desires. It was, the Mole perceived, a marriage made in hell. In the end, they agreed to an exchange of favors. The American wanted to kill three people. But the Mole figured that three million dollars deposited in a Danish bank would be a fair price for the project he now envisioned. After thinking it through, he’d traveled to Detroit and sat down for coffee with Rashid a second time.

He told Rashid: “Your organization is under a lot of stress right now. It’s gotta be difficult to mount a large operation in the States. I, however, can offer you one-stop shopping.”

Rashid said, “Explain one-stop shopping.”

“None of your people would be involved,” the Mole began. “Just give me the ton of explosives you have in Canada. I’ll build the weapon and position it and execute the attack. If I succeed, you pay me three million dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money. What do you intend to attack?” Rashid asked.

The Mole explained the kind of target he had in mind, but not the specific location.

Rashid’s coffee cup trembled slightly in his fingers and he leaned closer. “What exactly is the weapon?”

The Mole briefed him with the aid of some photos and several pages of detailed diagrams.

Rashid licked his lips. “But how would you get inside?”

So the Mole told him.

Rashid leaned closer, thought for a moment, then whispered, “God in heaven. This could work.”

Eventually someone in a cave on the Afghan-Pakistan border thought so, too, and the deal was struck. Now, after a lot of work and a bit of luck, the weapon was in place. The Mole had his passport in his pocket, along with an airline ticket to Copenhagen.

He looked up into the clouds with a pained expression as a sprinkle of raindrops dotted his windshield. Please, no more rain. Forget the rain. He had other things to worry about. Like their “friend.” They had set him up for his first kill, thinking that by taping the crime they could always blackmail him if they sensed him slipping outside their control. The opposite proved true. He couldn’t get enough of the tape. Now he wanted more.

But first they had to get through tonight.

Chapter Twenty-one

Broker and Kit watched the blue single-engine Piper Saratoga II HP cruise the Langdon strip at 500 feet then go into a standard landing pattern: flying counterclockwise, making a series of left turns around the strip, and finally lining up on approach and setting down. When the prop stopped moving, two men emerged: Doc Harris, the pilot, and Lyle Torgeson, a Cook County deputy. They greeted Kit and shook hands with Broker.

Harris, a tanned, well-preserved seventy, a retired general surgeon, asked Broker about his hand. Broker lied and said it was no problem. Lyle said, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s going on here? Your mom had us lined up to pick up Kit before you called.”

Broker just smiled, clapped Lyle on the shoulder, and said, “I really appreciate this.”

Lyle said, “I figured that’s about all you’d say. Watch yourself.”

Kit, still in a huff from their minor tiff leaving Shuster’s equipment shed, remained distant and stoic. Broker wondered if she’d acquired the old army trick of picking a fight with loved ones before shipping out, to make the parting easier. But climbing into the small door aft of the wing, she turned and grabbed him in a bear hug and he had to pry her arms from around his neck as she shouted, “I want you and Mommy to come home together.”

Then she climbed into the plane, pressed her face up against a passenger window, and nagged him with her teared-up eyes. The prop revved up but the engine noise didn’t quite drown out the echo of her words.

Broker’s marching orders were getting more complicated.

Then the plane taxied down the strip and flew away. Kit’s face, framed in an aircraft window, faded into a blur as Doc climbed and banked east.

Broker stood awhile watching the plane disappear. He reminded himself that the Saratoga was a first-class high-performance aircraft. And that Doc Harris was a veteran pilot. But as he walked back to the Ford he was mindful of the moody clouds hanging overhead. And that JFK Jr. had taken his last flight in a Piper Saratoga.

He got in the Ford, pulled up to the highway, and looked right and then left. The entry road to the airstrip was about 300 yards from the bar and the equipment shed. He could just make out Dale Shuster and another guy walking across the highway and going into the bar.

Broker had dismissed Kit’s strange comment about Dale Shuster’s toilet, but he’d noticed something else at the shed that got him thinking. So he decided to pay another visit. Making no attempt to hide his approach, he drove down the highway and pulled into the weedy lot in front of the shed. There were two vehicles in the lot, both pretty beat up-a Grand Prix with a filthy windshield and a brown Chevy van.

Okay, he thought as he got out of his truck, so I’m being a little obvious. He threw a glance across the road at the bar’s brick facade. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a rematch with that Gordy guy.

Broker walked around the back of the shed to where the lone piece of earth-moving equipment was parked. Something about the Deere had caught his attention: on the left rear end, one of the counterweights was missing. A solid hunk of yellow cast iron two feet square, six inches deep, and weighing perhaps 500 pounds, a counterweight was the ultimate blunt object. Huge bolts held it to the machine’s frame. Its purpose was to offset the load in the bucket. It was not something that got damaged under normal use.

Broker cocked his ear when he heard a motor start. He peeked around the edge of the shed and saw the brown van pull onto the highway, caught a glimpse of the driver-the scarred-up dude he’d seen with Dale Shuster this morning. The van accelerated back toward town. He waited a few moments, heard nothing else, and moved off ten yards into the damp weeds along the side of the shed. Looked around to get his bearings. Right about here he’d seen a flash of yellow on his first visit. The ground was disturbed, dug up and refilled. Okay. He moved deeper in the weeds and found it. A corner of yellow cast iron peeked from the ground. The rain had washed away the top layer of dirt.

Broker stooped and rapped his knuckle against the dense iron. Now who in the hell would bury a counterweight? He got up, walked back to the Deere front-loader, and began to study it like a puzzle.

“Morning,” a voice said behind him.

Broker turned and saw the husky deputy-Jim Yeager-watching him. Yeager was in uniform, tan over brown.

“Hi,” Broker said.

“What’s up?” Yeager asked.

Broker held up a red Bic lighter. “Was by here earlier looking at this Deere. Dropped my lighter. Just found